Bullet with Butterfly Wings
by IllChemist
Summary: McCree and Pharah both reluctantly answer the Recall and join the revamped Overwatch, neither quite ready to face the memories they bring back of each other. As teammates old and new join them, and old ghosts return from the past, their old bond is tested, broken, and reformed all at once. Writing exercise of a headcanon that seems very rarely explored.
1. Ghosts at the Watchpoint

**Ghosts at the Watchpoint**

 _"What the hell am I doing here?"_

This thought plagued McCree as he stood at the bluffs and stared out at the sunbaked sea. Lord knows how long he'd been standing there asking himself that same question over and over.

He'd arrived at Gibraltar at some point in the early afternoon. No one had greeted him, no one hand run out of the facility to embrace him like an old friend from the past. Maybe they were just giving him his space, maybe no one had answered the Recall… Then again, maybe they still remembered him as the Cowboy that ran.

No, he realized, they knew that he was there – it was pushing well into dusk now and he'd barely moved an inch. It didn't take long for him to spot the surveillance camera locked on to his figure. At a bare minimum, Athena and Winston would have been alerted to his presence.

McCree sniffed a bit and tugged at his crimson serape. A whole range of emotions bombarded him as he looked at the setting Sun in the distance. Truth be told, it was a sight to behold – the whole Watchpoint was bathed in an orange hue magnifying even the drab brown tones of the buildings around him. It provoked so many memories – good, bad and ugly. It brought back old friends and, along with them, old ghosts.

He heaved a heavy sigh and decided it was time for a smoke. After producing and lighting a cigarillo, he took a long drag and immediately felt his nerves calm. _"Mercy would kill me before these things would,"_ he mused to himself. _"An addict to the end by one way or another, I guess."_ Would she be back? Hell, probably. The German knight with all his tendencies – yes. The Swedish dwarf would undoubtedly have returned in all his glorious bitching. Lena – abso-freaking-lutely… The list began to thin out quickly.

 _"All of the old guard died…"_ came a somber reminder. The perfect little Freudian trio that held Overwatch in place from the very start and ultimately caused it all to go to hell. Jack, Gabriel… and Ana. He didn't want to think about that name at all. He wasn't ready for it yet.

Thankfully, the steady thump of approaching footsteps cut him off before he dwelled too long. "Beautiful sunset, no?" came a strong baritone.

 _"Time to put on the charm."_ McCree turned to see Winston approaching him, the smile of an old friend on his face. "She sure is a beaut," came his southern drawl. McCree tipped his cowboy hat at the gorilla-cum-scientist. "Howdy, old partner."

"McCree," Winston said simply. He drew up next to him and looked out at the sea. While the light was getting ever-dimmer, Morocco was still barely visible in the distance, a whole continent separated by a mere few miles. "It's, uh… it's been a long time," he added.

He smiled and nodded. "Longer than most, I'd imagine."

There was a lot of truth to that. Unlike many of the other agents, when McCree left Overwatch he emphasized staying off the grid as his priority. Aside from a few newsworthy scraps with some bad characters, the cowboy had managed to stay completely off the radar. Hell, he'd even managed to bribe a Blackwatch agent to have his file nuked when he left just so he'd be that much harder to find. Sure, life got lonely at times, but when you're a former member of an organization that, on its best days, was vitriolic in the world, some privacy came with a warm embracement.

"Too long," Winston said, turning to McCree with a toothy grin. "Most people inside probably feel the same way, you know?"

"Can't say I blame 'em," McCree responded, "Who wouldn't miss such a pretty face?"

That earned a hearty laugh from Winston who clapped McCree on the back in a show of comradery. The sudden force caused McCree to lurch forward slightly, a quick gasp escaping his mouth. Winston, for all his good intentions and insistence that he was indeed a scientist, often forgot that he was as strong as… well, an ape. "You haven't changed a bit, have you McCree?" He placed his hand on McCree's back again, far more lightly this time. "Are you ready to go inside?"

After a deep drag off his cigar, McCree let out a sigh and nodded to Winston. "I suppose so," he stated. "Say, uh… Winston."

"Hm?"

"Just who all is here, anyways?"

Winston hesitated a bit, perhaps stuck on the names in all the emotions that were bombarding him at once. "Well, uh, let's see… There's, um… Reinhardt, of course. No one's probably surprised that he'd be one of the first to return. Torbjorn is on his way from Sweden, though he's stopped in Switzerland gathering supplies for Angela at the moment. Other than that, there's Tracer and Genji… Not quite the response that I might've expected, if I'm being completely honest."

McCree heard every name and took them in a different way. He never really interacted with Reinhardt too much, though he knew the old knight well enough to know that he'd be welcoming the cowboy back with broad, open arms thick as the Hoover Dam. Torbjorn would be bitching his way back to Overwatch every step of the way, but he was part of the organization's fabric, through and through. Tracer and Genji both joined Overwatch near the bitter end, so perhaps they'd avoided the true pitfalls that struck everyone. That left Angela… Mercy, who, if McCree's memory served him correctly, was one of the last to give up on everyone, dead or alive. Poor girl was probably trying to revive the ghosts of old to help her clear her conscience.

"Beyond that, though," Winston added, "I'm trying to recruit a few new names to help our cause."

"New folk?" asked McCree, perplexed that anyone would be foolish enough to join what was, by UN definitions, an outlawed organization. "Tell me, Winston, who in God's name would be willing to put their life on the line for a ragtag group of mercs?"

Winston nodded, understanding the nature of the question. "Well, let's see… There's Aleksandra Zaryanova, Lucio Correia, Hana Song-"

"… You mean the video gamer?"

"I mean the Meka pilot, McCree."

"Still a kid though."

Winston heaved a sigh so hard that McCree was worried he'd be blown clear off the cliff. "They're all kids, Jesse," he said plainly. "So were you when you joined Overwatch, if I remember correctly."

"Joined Overwatch before you," he retorted. "But yeah, I wasn't naught but a babe myself now that you mention it."

His mind drifted back to his first days being part of Overwatch. The lingering emotions still burned just as hard as when they first took route. The fear of screwing up, the inherent distrust of his superiors… Hardly anyone paid him any damn mind. As far as Morrison, Amari, and Reyes were concerned, McCree was nothing more than tool, a passageway into the innerworkings of the Deadlock Gang. Hardly anyone paid him any mind at all. Hell, only Amari's daughter, Fareeha ever seemed keen on joking around with him during his downtime, and back then she was just a kid, only twelve or thirteen years old.

Come to think of it, those were some of his fondest memories. Hell, he'd felt totally alienated in the first few months with the team, only talking to Gabriel and even that was on a professional basis. It wasn't until Fareeha mocked tipping a cowboy hat at him that he found any real friendly face to talk to. Sure, she wasn't exactly in his age bracket back then, but for the first time since he'd picked up a pistol with the Deadlock Gang, he felt like he had someone he could relate to. Maybe it was because he'd never had any siblings… Hell, he'd hardly had any real childhood at all, come to face it. Maybe that's why he found so much comf-

"Um, Jesse," Winston broke his chain of thought. He noticed the scientist had managed to shimmy a good deal towards the base without McCree noticing. "Not to be a bother, but it's getting awfully dark out here and we aren't exactly ready to light the exterior at night."

In an instant, he slapped his smirk back on his face and became the Cowboy again. "I hear ya." He threw his cigarillo to the ground and stamped it out, making sure the flame was gone. "Let's go in and mingle."

He came up alongside Winston and the two walked back towards the base together. At first, there was only the silence, but ever the gregarious one, Winston broke it. "It is good to see you again, McCree."

Realizing just how sincerely he meant it, Jesse's smirked fell into a warmer, softer grin and he nodded. "You too, partner. You too."


	2. Hiya, Sport

**Hiya Sport…**

"Hold out your right arm, please," Dr. Ziegler ordered.

Why she had to go through a whole physical on arrival from Giza baffled Fareeha Amari. She'd been a soldier for more than a decade now, and she'd made doubly sure to stay in peak physical condition. Standard cardio four days a week, with a fifth day dedicated to an impact sport, three days dedicated to upper-body, three days dedicated to lower. One had to maintain an extremely strong posture in order to operate a jump jet system like the Mark VI.

Nonetheless, she stuck out her right arm. Angela, still as gregarious as she'd ever been, wrapped a pad around it and activated the automated inflator. "Just testing your blood pressure," she said nonchalantly.

"You're telling me this is still the most advanced technology we have for this?" Fareeha asked. The blonde doctor chuckled and gave a small nod without a word. "Why don't you just make some new device? You're good at that."

"Measuring blood pressure is different than closing wounds, Pharah. I'm not a miracle worker you know."

It felt weird to hear someone so well-known to her call Fareeha by her in-field name. Especially someone like Angela, who'd made good care to keep in touch with her over the years, even more so after what happened to her mother. "Couldn't you have just asked for my file from Helix Security?" she pried. It's not that she didn't like chit-chatting with the doctor. On the contrary, she'd been one of her closest friends since she was twelve years old. That said, she'd hoped their first time being reunited could have happened in a more social setting.

Angela shook her head. "No, that won't do," she replied. "I find that most other doctors tend to skim over some of the finer details one should note on a first examination." The device beeped and deflated itself. Dr. Ziegler removed it on cue, almost too fast for Fareeha to even realize that it had performed its function. Pulling out a pen, Angela quickly jotted down a few notes. "Are you not a fan of my bedside manner?" she joked. Then after Fareeha exhaled harshly, another giggle escaped the doctor's lips.

"What's so funny?"

She shook her head and placed the clipboard aside. "Oh, nothing really."

"You're laughing at me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I was just thinking how you're still as impatient as you were in my office as a teenager."

She could feel herself begin to blush in an instant. If there's one thing that anyone knew about her, it was that Fareeha Amari dreaded sitting in one spot at a time for too long. Maybe it stemmed from being a child who found herself constantly surrounded by soldiers and mercenaries and all types of world travelers. She'd been stuck with Overwatch during its true golden era, witnessing them be hailed as heroes. Jack Morrison, Gabriel Reyes, Reinhardt, Torbjorn… they weren't just people, they were larger than life itself. Gods among men, idolized and turned into statues. People had their posters on their walls. _"So did I,"_ she thought to herself… It was tough being surrounded by nothing but adults. They did their best to keep her entertained, but they could never relate to her the same way her friends back home had.

 _"Well, except Je- "_

No. She wouldn't let that thought seep into her brain. Letting her mind drift in that direction would only make her angry.

"…Are you okay, Pharah?"

"Hm?"

"You've been staring off into space for the past minute or so."

That blush again. Just as easily as she could lose her temper, she could also feel embarrassed. When she wasn't on the battlefield, sometimes she had the attention span of a squirrel. "I'm fine," she reassured Angela. "I was just thinking about the old days back in Switzerland."

"You never would a good liar, you know that?" Angela only sort-of asked.

Fareeha again hesitated before responding. The whole room around her grew cold and sterile. The air didn't move an iota. The cabinets sat lifeless on the beige walls, all offering nothing but the blandest of entertainments in the fluorescent lighting. Even though everything was covered in that pale tone, it felt incredibly dark around her. The lack of windows certainly didn't help things, and probably wouldn't considering it was already dim outside to begin with. Still, it would have helped her fight off the suffocating feeling of being locked in a doctor's office when she could have been out on a patrol or chatting it up with Tariq in the barracks.

"Do you want to tell me what's bothering you?"

Pharah huffed. "Are you my doctor, my friend, or my therapist?" she shot at her. "I'm having trouble keeping track."

She received a nonplussed response, "Friends shouldn't be therapists, but they can still listen… And I'm _everyone's_ doctor, whether they're a member of Overwatch or not."

Her sense of morals and justice certainly felt like something most people should aspire to. Fareeha herself always ascribed to her own personal mantra of protecting the innocent. All the same, it struck Fareeha as more of a professional, recited response than an honest one.

"My apologies," Angela piped in, somehow reading Fareeha's thoughts. "People always tell me I shouldn't pry, but here we are again."

She shouldn't pry, but she was damn good at it. It was her damned _eyes_ , always looking eager and compassionate with simultaneous strength. The look of someone who truly, genuinely wanted to help you through whatever tough times you were having. Angela Ziegler cared more about the people around her than the rest of Overwatch combined, and in an organization where Reinhardt was around to "be your shield" that said a whole bundle of unspoken words. "You only pry because you care," Fareeha finally spoke. "I'm sorry for being so short with you, Angela," she refused to use her friend's call name of Mercy as it didn't carry the same sense of comradery, "but I've been feeling a bit overwhelmed the last two days since arriving."

Angela smiled softly, satisfied with the answer. "If you need to talk about it, my door and ears are always open to you."

 _"I may as well just take this opportunity while it's quiet,"_ she thought to herself.

"In less than forty-eight hours, I've gone from being a squad captain charged protecting a dangerous AI to a mercenary outlaw who's yet to protect a single thing outside of Gibraltar... Joining Overwatch was always my dream, but…"

Angela completed the thought for her as Fareeha's voice trailed off. "But you never quite imagined it'd be like this." A solemn nod was all she could muster as a response, so Angela continued. "You know, Pharah-

"Please, call me Fareeha," she interrupted. "We've known each other far too long to be on a professional basis."

"Fareeha," she corrected. Her Swiss accent practically sung the name, revealing a small amount of joy that she was still considered a friend. "Before I answered the Recall, I found myself doubting that it'd ever amount to anything. We're a team without funding and without a true leader, bless Winston's heart… Then I realized just how right he was. All of us have been spending recent years doing what things we can to help the world heal, but we've been so far apart that our impact has been small. Talon's growing stronger, corruption is running rampant… Even the Omnics we once feared are victims just like everyone else."

Fareeha realized she must've been staring at the ground, because her vision became partly obscured by her long, black locks falling in front of her eyes. She quickly reeled back, flipping them out of her field of vision and looking at Angela's eyes. "So, you're saying the whole is greater than the sum of its parts."

Angela curtly nodded. "Precisely."

She didn't have much to go off of, but it felt like a good start. Good enough for her to smile, anyways. "When I was young, Overwatch felt like more than a collection of heroes," she said, "it felt like hope… Maybe in time we can become that again."

Angela rose from her chair and picked up her clipboard, "Well, Fareeha, with more recruits like you, I'm sure the world will look up to us again in no time."

"Don't flatter me."

She waved the response off. "Regardless, you're in fantastic physical condition. I'm sure both you and Winston will be delighted to hear that I'm green-lighting you for operations." After jotting a few more notes, though, she added a final sentence to that. "Do try and limit your intake of cured meats and salty foods, though. Your blood pressure is higher than what I'd call ideal."

Fareeha rolled her eyes. "I take it that's another miracle that you can't work then."

"All of the miracles in the world can't cure a case of too much salt, Fareeha."

 _"Oh hardy har har, doctor,"_ she didn't say out loud.

"Is that it for my examination then?"

"Yes, you're free to- "

A soft, female voice interrupted Angela. As familiar as she was with Athena from growing up in an Overwatch facility, spending the last few years around an AI that could actively begin trying to destroy the human population in a moment's notice gave Fareeha some pause when Winston's AI started acting a bit _too_ human. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Doctor Ziegler, but Winston is on his way to your office with a new arrival. Shall I ask them to postpone until you are through with Miss Amari?"

Angela looked at Fareeha silently and tried to size up whether her patient needed anymore care, emotionally or medically. As quickly as she let her guard down before, Fareeha raised it back up at the thought of being pitied.

"That's quite alright, Athena. I was just finishing up with Fareeha."

"Very well."

It dawned on Fareeha all at once just why she felt a slight chill throughout her entire body – her top half only featured a sports bra. Springing from the metal table she'd rested so uncomfortably for the last half hour, she lunged for her navy blue top and threw it over head hurriedly. The pertinence of her actions proved to be very much worth it, as just as it got halfway down her face, she heard the door sliding open across the room.

 _"At least give me a damned warning next time!"_ Lucky for her, the shirt over her head probably hid an extremely annoyed face. The thought of Winston strolling in with some stranger and stumbling upon her when she's half-naked was not something she would have wanted. Unfortunately, for her, her rushed motions also caused her to struggle with the shirt far longer than any sane person possibly could have imagined.

She heard the familiar baritone of Winston as he crossed the threshold into the room. "Doctor Ziegler!" he said cheerfully. Clearly, whoever showed up at Gibraltar put the scientist in a jovial mood. "Sorry to interrupt, but I – oh…" Winston paused.

Fareeha took the brief moment of silence as a cue to finish clothing herself properly. She imagined her face must've looked as stupid as his at that exact moment.

Sheepishly, he continued, "Um… excuse me, Athena told me to stroll on in."

Angela, somehow oblivious the human-versus-shirt struggle that had been taking place up until that moment, found it was _her_ turn to blush. "Oh, my goodness." At least she sounded truly embarrassed for a change. "No no, Winston, that was my fault… I heard there was a new arrival and-" Angela stopped talking all at once. Even though her face brightened slightly, Doctor Ziegler covered her mouth lightly with her hand, and even though Fareeha heard her say it, it clearly wasn't meant to be said out loud. "Mein Gott…"

All it took was a third voice to shatter Fareeha's entire, briefly comfortable little world. "Now now, doctor, I don't claim to be the Almighty, but if that's what you're going to call me these days, I could get used to it."

That long, southern drawl, that sickening charm, that frustrating noise of spurs as his boots began drawing closer and closer to the door… Fareeha always felt that if she died, she wanted it to be quick and painless. It's best to go out in a way that you don't what's coming so you can't feel the sense of dread and fear of the inevitable and the unknown. Now, more than ever before, she clung to those beliefs with a boa-constrictor's grip.

"You've barely aged a day," he said. With those words, his form came clear into Fareeha's view.

The only thing about Jesse McCree that seemed to have changed over the years was that he now sported a robust, masculine beard across his chin. She could hardly believe it. The stupid brown hat on his head, the red serape thrown across his shoulders, the ancient cowboy boots with spurs… _"Oh my God,"_ Fareeha realized, groaning internally, _"he's still wearing that ridiculous BAMF belt."_ Somewhere, deeper down aside, a second thought pecked the back of her mind. _"Stupid."_

To her terror, he turned his eyes in Fareeha's direction. "Well, I'll be damned," he mumbled. A long, agonizing silence lingered between the two of them. Whether it last a second, a minute, or a year, Fareeha could hardly discern. If an emotion existed, she felt it then and there. Their sweeping presence tugged her in fifty thousand directions scattered across the world. Joy, sadness, elation, comfort, melancholy… the whole nine yards, each tried to dictate her next action. Truth be told, their first time seeing each other in years might've gone differently if the next words he said didn't cause one sensation in particular to pulse through her with the force of a whirlwind.

"Hiya, Sport."

Fareeha was _furious._

This man was oblivious. He was beyond help. He simply was not worth talking to.

With those exact thoughts repeating themselves over and over in her head, she rose from the table trying to make damned sure she stared not at him, but _through_ him. Not until she walked past him and turned down the corridor did she dare give him a chance to entertain a thought of her being on good terms with him.

And not once did she give in to the urge to turn back and look at him, even when she felt the weight of his eyes boring into the back of her head.

Of all the uncertain things Fareeha felt when she first arrived at Gibraltar, there was one thing she held in full confidence: she wanted _nothing_ do with Jesse McCree.

 **A/N - Eek! Surprised this gained some attention with just one chapter wrapped up. Gonna have to pick up the pace. Thought I'd plop a couple of quick notes now before I get too deep: this story is very dialogue and emotion driven with action taking a very solid back seat. If you're looking for the latter, there are probably far more exciting pieces scattered throughout these archives worth taking a look at.**

 **I plan on interjecting a good number of flashbacks every few chapters as well as telling the story from both McCree and Pharah's POV... I can tell you right now, the former is far easier to write than the latter.**

 **The limited space didn't allow me to mention this in the description, but the story's title is also the name of a song by The Smashing Pumpkins. They have pretty much nothing to do with each other, I just thought it captured both character's defining traits decently enough to use.**

 **Hope you enjoy!**


	3. Gotta Work on That Aim

**Gotta Work on that Aim (20 Years Prior)**

The mess hall at the Swiss HQ stood tall and wide, accommodating Overwatch agents from all branches and services. The entire southern wall was covered in glass panes, giving a beautiful view of the most mountainous landscapes that western Europe had to offer. When inside it during its peak hours, every sense in the human body became excited. The smells and tastes of the food were far better than any cafeteria had any right being, the landscape always looked gorgeous, and the crowds of people kept the noise level at a perfectly comfortable dull roar. During the golden age of Overwatch, people shared an old joke that the hungrier you were, the closer you got to your friends.

McCree found himself alone in a corner.

This came as nothing new to him. Gabriel Reyes, his oh-so-pleasant commanding officer, hadn't done so much as tell McCree's squad mates to try and be cordial. Factor in the fact that he'd managed to off a few of them during the scuffle that led to his arrest, and there was a perfect recipe for the cowboy to see more sneers than smiles. "You aren't here to make friends, McCree," Reyes had grilled him the first time he'd complained about it, the gravel cadence thick and drowned in serious tones.

He sighed as everyone else carried on in the pleasant conversations, seemingly unaware of his existence. Deliberately or not, it didn't really matter. "At least the meatloaf's good," he muttered as he picked up his utensils.

With carnivorous hunger, he sawed away at the slice of meat he'd been given and, to be honest, it didn't take much work. They'd served the loaf both juicy and tender, with just the perfect dash of sauce to compliment the flavor and not overdo it. He'd never expected a Swiss chef to understand the nuance of peasant food, but they nailed it. They even mixed in a portion of pork to make sure the meat retained all its flavor in spite of the cooking process.

Eagerly, he lifted the slice and went to take a bite out of it. He'd not noticed just how hungry he was until they'd served him the dish.

A rubber band went flying past his head. He barely caught sight of it as whirled out of his peripheral vision. Rolling his eyes, he dropped his fork down and turned to see just who it was that decided to bother him during the one time of day he got to feel truly at home in this godforsaken place.

"Reach for the skies, partner!" The voice carried a feminine tone, still accented with a youthful note.

His annoyance quickly faded into a cheerful disposition as he turned and saw Fareeha Amari staring him down, both arms extended out in his direction forming pretend handguns. Seeing a twelve year-old Egyptian smirk in that stance just about made his day, and he gave a hard chuckle just as soon as he saw it. "I tell ya Sport," he said, "you gotta work on that aim."

She folded her arms in front of her. "I told you I hated it when you call me Sport," she said as her smirk crossed into a hard frown.

He shrugged. "Well, I kinda like it, so if it's all the same to you, I think I'll keep doing it."

That earned him a good, hard eyeroll. All the same, though, she decided to plop herself down in the chair next to his. McCree couldn't complain; they'd only interacted a couple of times before, but they both took a liking to each other rather quickly. "Why aren't you sitting with someone else?"

"What do you mean?"

Fareeha motioned her hand at the rest of the cafeteria, crowded to the very limit with other agents. "Why don't you go talk to them?"

"Maybe I prefer to keep to myself," he lied. McCree _really_ didn't want to broach the topic of why he was so alienated with Fareeha. Stupid as it may seem to someone else, the kid was probably the only friend he had at the HQ, and Reyes wasn't the type to mingle during lunch hours. "Besides, I think the others get a kick out of calling us the 'kids table.'"

"That's stupid." She gave a brief pause before correcting her words. " _You're_ stupid."

"Now you're starting to sound like my mother," he quipped. "Most people don't like being called stupid, you know."

Fareeha folded her arms once and rolled her eyes just about hard as one can with them falling right out of the skull. "Well some people don't like being called Sport, Stupid, so I don't see why I should stop."

She had him, and he knew it. "You're awfully sharp for a twelve-year-old," he said with a good, hearty laugh. "Look, why don't we cut a deal? Every time I call you Sport, you can go right on ahead and call me Stupid."

She grinned slyly. "Fine."

"It works vice-versa too. You call me Stupid, I'm going to come right back at ya and call you Sport, understand?"

He couldn't help but feel like he'd gotten the short end of the bargain, and the sickeningly bright smile he got as a response all but sealed that fate. McCree did everything he could to not grumble. _"Kid's too sharp for her good,"_ he thought to himself. With a quick wink, he adjusted his hat and went back to attend to his meat loaf.

Unfortunately, his enjoyment of such a savory dish would go interrupted once again. "Fareeha!" The voice came feminine and dipped in a thick, alluring Egyptian accent. Privately, McCree confessed to himself that Commander Ana Amari was one hell of looker, and that accent didn't do him any favors when it came to shoving those thoughts underground. All the same, though, he took great care to tread carefully around her. After all, she was one of the few people who could probably have him ousted with a simple word. Reyes could only vouch so far, and Commander Morrison would have been more than happy to see the cowboy out on his ass at the first opportunity. She approached the table, some thirty feet away.

"Looks like the cavalry's arrived kiddo," McCree said to Fareeha. The girl groaned and dropped her head to the table.

With perfect timing, she lifted her head from the table as Ana settled in right next to her. "Fareeha, dear, I've been looking all over for you." She stole a glance at McCree, and for a moment he locked eyes with the commander. Knowing and compassionate usually, when they looked at McCree, though, there appeared to be the slightest hint of contempt to them. Still, no denying that she commanded respect… and still, he had the hots for her something fierce. The almond tones to her skin combined with that jet-black hair, all resting atop a soldier's body… Yeah, no denying she was quite the looker. So much so that he even forgave that brief, albeit noted, annoyed glance at his hat. Finally, her attention turned back to her daughter. "I thought I told you not to get lunch until you were done with your studies."

"They're done."

Ana sighed. "If they're done, would you be a darling and get us something to eat from Al."

With all the attitude of a twelve-year-old, she gave a good, strong huff and stood up. Drawing out the word as long humanly possible, Fareeha stood and began walking towards the cafeteria line. "Fine."

 _"Slick move,"_ McCree thought. Now the commander had him cornered, and he felt a good grilling coming on.

"Jesse McCree," she said.

"Commander Amari." He didn't even let the silence linger for a moment as he noticed her eyes drifting up to his hat again. Clearing his throat, he continued, "Um… what can I do for you, ma'am?"

Her eyes fell back on his, causing him to avert his gaze ever-so-slightly. The commander could deliver eight thousand emotions with those eyes, and in limitless combinations. Looking into them felt like looking into your own soul... McCree found no appeal in that prospect. "Jesse, it seems as though you've been enjoying the company of my daughter a bit late."

"She's a good kid," he said, not quite having the nerve to look back at Ana just yet.

"Save the charm." Damn… that came out as blunt as a box of hammers. "This isn't a conversation, _cowboy_ , it's an interview… and look at my eyes when you speak to me. I won't have any of this staring-into-space nonsense."

He shifted awkwardly. The metal chair sent a sudden chill throughout his body, shivering his spine the whole way up to the neck. Even through his Blackwatch uniform, he could feel it. Carefully, he turned his head and locked eyes with commander, and the look he found was… well, actually they came off as surprisingly soft. "It ain't charm, ma'am," he said. "Fareeha's got a good spirit."

She gave a soft nod, exhaled, and then removed the blue cap that had been sitting on her head up to this point. Funny how such a small action seemed to lift a lot of the formality out of the conversation. "I'm going to keep this short, Jesse," she started. "I've been through your file… Reyes has to run them by both Commander Morrison and I even though Blackwatch is his branch, so it's not as if I was snooping around or anything." That part came as totally unconvincing – who thought could such a high authority figure be such a bad liar? "You need to convince me that I can trust you with my daughter."

And there it was. Just like his squad mates and just like Reyes, there was the suspicion and doubt that had become his most familiar acquaintances over the last half-year. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to flip over the table and let her know just who it was she was dealing with. He wanted to have that edge to him again… and yet, deep down inside, he knew that's exactly the part of him he had to bury if he ever wanted to find some sense of peace in his life.

McCree decided that if clearing out all formalities meant taking the hat off, he'd have to do it. With a strong exhale, as if the effort pained him and drew him to exhaustion, he placed the hat on the table, making sure to steal another glance at the mountainous landscape outside. Jagged they may be, the peace they offered allured event he toughest of men, the roughest of sorts. A white-throated dipper zipped past the atrium-like windows, zooming out of sight just as quickly as it had come into his vision. The freedom it must've felt, to be able to come and go as it pleased, to live a simple live devoid of suspicion, devoid of hate and fear… Jesus, that must've been a hell of a thing… even if it meant a life of flying.

Satisfied with the momentary gander, he turned back to Ana. Her eyes had not changed in tone – their brown irises seeming to want to be able to trust a man of such disreputable history. "Ma'am-

"Please, dear, call me Ana."

"Ana," he corrected himself. "If you're looking for me to tell you that I'm a reformed man, that the killings and the thievery and anger all behind me, I'm afraid you aren't gonna get the answer you want to hear." While he talked, he studied her reactions carefully, doing everything he could to make sure he could patch up any potential puncture-wound to the nature of this conversation. "Being in Blackwatch means you've gotta harness all that and make sure you use them properly… and that's what I'm trying to do." She opened her mouth to speak, but he continued because she had to hear him out all the way to understand the true gist of his way of life. "It hasn't been easy. Hell, it's been a real pain in the ass, but I'm here now. I'm here, and I'm trying to do something better… I doubt I'll ever be able to make up for the sins of my past, but I'll be damned if I ain't going to try."

Her eyes stayed locked on his like stones, emotionless and judging to the very core. "So, tell me then, why should I trust my daughter with a man whose history reads like a monster."

McCree laid his palms on the table, an old habit from his days in the Deadlock gang to show he had no intention of reaching for his weapons. It was a sign of trust and honesty. Whether Amari knew that or not, he didn't know and he didn't care. He just had to speak from the heart. "You looked at my file, so you've seen the killings. You've seen the assaults, the robberies, the petty thefts… but if you went back and looked it over again, and I mean you gave it a really good once-over, you'd find that in all of those crimes, there was one thing that never showed up."

"And that is?"

He rose both his palms, now facing them towards Ana as if he were opening himself up for an embrace of some sort. His chest was now open to her, his heart pointing right at hers. "I never once, not a single solitary time, harmed a child."

Their eyes stared more deeply now, scrutinizing the very fiber of each other's being. Christ, it felt like the ghost of his mother was zoning in on him now, checking every tell he had, making sure everything was in order, trying their damnedest to find a lie. He kept looking right back at her, knowing full well that breaking first meant an inevitable, one-way ticket back to being a lonely young cowboy in a world full of people who didn't give a damn whether he lived or died.

Much to his relief, her eyes gave first, breaking into a sort of warmth he hadn't anticipated. "So, I can trust that you'll never harm mine, then." A hint of danger and warning snuck into those words.

With one swift motion, he plucked his hat from the table and placed it lightly on his head. Giving it one slight adjustment, he tilted his head towards hers as if greeting an old friend. "Never harmed a kid," he repeated, "and until my dying breath, I never will."

Now the warmth of her eyes was joined by the warmth of her smile. Genuine and shocking in the suddenness of the transition, he felt a great sense of ease envelope him. "Very well, Jesse." Her gaze fell back on to Fareeha, who was chatting it up with Al, the lively cook. "I'm willing to put my faith in you," she said.

"And if I don't follow through, it'll be a long, slow death," he recited Reyes' words… God knows he didn't want to hear them come out of a superior's mouth again. The man had seemed so sincere when he'd said them… spooky. Grabbing his fork for another cut of meatloaf, he gave the commander one final, lingering gaze before clearing up one issue that he felt still stood between the two of them. "Oh, and uh, one more thing Ana."

"Hm?"

His cocky demeanor came back swift as a panther. "The name's McCree."


	4. Whiskey, You're the Devil

**Whiskey, You're the Devil**

 _Dink! Dink! Dink!_

The sound of McCree's bullets piercing through the metallic skulls of the training bots echoed throughout the training yard. He always found solace here, and today was no different. Bright and sunny, with a cool ocean breeze keeping the temperature just right, he felt focused and able to collect his thoughts for the first time in two days.

Of course, those thoughts for both of those two days always led back to the inevitable image of Fareeha's eyes pulsing through his body with anger.

"Guess that old tradition's over," he'd muttered as she'd walked down the hall, hardly even acknowledging his existence. For the first time in his entire life, he'd felt annoyed at _not_ being called stupid.

 _Dink! Dink! Dink!_

Three more bots fell in a heap as he tried to stay focused on his aim. Best not to dwell on what transpired two days ago and instead focus on what needed to be done two days from now… Not that McCree had any real idea about what was going to be happening two days from now. So far as he could tell, Winston hadn't so much as whispered the rebirth of Overwatch to any potential contacts who could get them work.

He felt useless all of a sudden. "Would have been doing more good on my own than coming back here," he thought out loud.

All at once, he felt unsatisfied with the thought of shooting down more bots. Didn't stop him from firing his Peacemaker again and again, but the balance he usually found in target practice eluded him more and more as he fired away. He wished that something, _anything_ , would happen to help his mind drift to more positive vibes.

His prayers were answered in the form of a heavy Swedish accent. "Y'know, McCree," he heard Torbjorn call as he crossed into the main training area, "we implemented a thirty minute time limit on the training zone… And yer thirty minutes expired some thirty minutes ago."

With a satisfied smile, he twirled his gun back into its holster and spun around to greet an old friend. "Thirty minute time limit?" he asked, "Didn't used to be the case, now did it?"

"Aye, didn't used to be, McCree, but that was back in the days where we had the manpower and resources to repair these bots nigh-nonstop," he fired back. "Must've slipped Winston's mind when he told ya about the new rules we put in place."

"I reckon it must've."

Torbjorn shook his head and made an exasperated noise of dismissal. He proved to be just as irritable as he ever was. It satisfied McCree to know that some things hadn't changed over the years. Torbjorn was still the same short, stout angry blonde Swede that he always had been. His face had a few more wrinkles, sure, but aging caught up to everyone in the end. "Got a lot on his mind, can't hold it against him," he said as he subdued himself. "Well, now you know."

McCree adjusted his hat ever so slightly and nodded, "That I do." Torbjorn made a quick move to walk away – what was with people not giving him the time of day of late? "Now don't tell me you dragged yourself all of the way down here just to tell me not to shoot up some bots."

His old friend stopped in his tracks and threw his hand on his hip as if pondering something. "I almost forgot," he muttered as he turned around. Now McCree saw an old expression that usually meant trouble… but moreso the good kind of trouble than the bad. The face of a man with a certain mischief on his mind. "Genji came back earlier today," he started. His expression darkened briefly as he mumbled, "Brought an Omnic monk with him… says he's his spiritual guide or some other nonsense. Spiritual robots." Torbjorn spat on the ground at the thought.

"Well, he's half machine himself now, Torby," McCree responded, apprehensive to be broaching such a sensitive topic. "He needs some sort of guide."

The short Swede cringed at the mention of his old nickname. "I suppose you aren't wrong, but an Omnic monk? I'd love to see how a bucket of bolts could achieve enlightenment," he mused. Privately, McCree found himself annoyed that old prejudices still eked their way into his friend's brain. "Anyways, because of the slew of new company we have between the old guard and new recruits, Winston thought it'd be best to have something of a get-together this evening."

"A get-together?"

Torbjorn nodded and scratched his beard lightly. "He thought it might be a good bonding experience."

McCree shook his head, "Sounds corporate."

That's when the reason behind Torb's mischievous look came to fruition. "I guess we're just going to have to make it a little less corporate then."

"Whiskey and cards?"

"Hmph," his friend said, "Reinhardt and I can get the whiskey. The cards might be tricky…"

He felt wounded. "Now Torby, who do you think you're talking to here?" McCree reached into his left pocket with his mechanical hand and produced a deck of old-fashioned Bicycle playing cards. "Never leave home with them. We just need to find out what we can gamble with, and we're golden."

"Chores, just like the old days," Torbjorn responded. "Let's just hope that the whiskey doesn't hit you like it used to in the old days."

McCree hoped his face didn't turn red, but he certainly felt like his cheeks did. While he preferred cards, drunk McCree often was the far risker gamble.

* * *

The soft burn in his stomach from the alcohol gave a definitive sign that he night had, indeed, turned out to be far less corporate than anticipated. Maybe he didn't give enough credit to Winston – the scientist showed good forethought in letting Lucio play some tunes throughout the night. The pulsing beats weren't much to McCree's liking, nor was Lucio's laughing reaction to his request for some Hank Williams, but it certainly helped encourage people to interact. All they really needed was some social lubricant to get the positive vibes flying around, and Torbjorn and Reinhardt had more than played their part in that regard. Even Angela didn't give any hassle when they produced all sorts of bottles of spirits, wine, and beer. No, the night up to this point had been nothing but laughter and smiles, and that suited McCree just fine.

Hana Song broke into another rant in her native tongue, pulling McCree's attention away from the warmth. "No need to get so worked up, now," he said. A slender, nineteen-year-old Meka pilot from Korea, Hana proved to be every bit as spunky and lively as he'd anticipated. It seemed the persona she streamed under, really was just her personality. "Just got the hot hand tonight is all."

Her hard glare countered his gregarious toned, not bending for a single moment. Then, with all the attitude one would expect from a pre-teen and not a young adult, she stuck her tongue out at him and, in a tone that definitely didn't mean they were friends, said a few short words.

Perplexed, he surveyed the table. Alongside Hana, he'd been joined by a few of the younger members of Overwatch – Lucio settled in next to Torbjorn, and across from them was, much to the ire of Torby, Genji and the yet-to-be-explained-floating Omnic monk, Zenyatta. Nestled between Hana and those two was the perpetual optimist Lena Oxton.

"You have any idea what she's saying?" he asked in Genji's direction.

While McCree couldn't read any sort of facial expression through his visor, his annoyed tone more than sold what he thought of that question. "I am Japanese," he retorted.

Maybe the alcohol hit him harder than he initially thought. Time to cover his tracks, "Right, uh… Well, you know how there are people in England who learned to speak French and that sort of thing. I just sort of figured that the two countries were close enough together that the same sort of thing might be the case."

 _"Good cover, numbnuts,"_ he beat himself up internally.

Genji gave a soft laugh. "No, McCree, it does not. Perhaps Mei-Ling Zhou would be able to help you out," he suggested.

McCree's eyes scanned the room, trying to hunt down the recently-thawed climatologist. Last he'd seen her she had settled in with Angela and Spor- _Fareeha_ to talk about how much they admired each other's work, and sure as hell, she was still sitting at the counter nursing a glass of wine alongside the doctor, somehow still instilling a sense of business into what was otherwise a pleasant shindig. "Hey, Mei!" he asked after spotting her.

Before he even got a chance to ask her if she could help him out with the translating, Genji's incredulous tone crescendoed into pure bafflement, "She is _Chinese_!"

Very few times in his life did he let people laugh at him and not with him. The whole table of agents mocked him for the second idiotic blunder in as short a time. The alcohol burned harder now, reminding him of just why his follies were so egregious. McCree could outplay anyone in a game of poker blindfolded if he had to, but as the old saying goes, _"Whiskey, you're the devil."_

He felt entirely uncomfortable all of a sudden, trying to find any way to get the focus of off himself. McCree never practiced the art of changing the subject much, and desperately tried to hunt down a reason to. Irrational and decently buzzed, he knew that being this embarrassed was completely unnecessary, but ever sense returning to the base, he'd been both shunned by an old friend and now made a fool of – not exactly the most glowing of feelings to experience in such a short time span. Had only a few years of isolation stripped him of his ability to charm his way out of any situation?

With some quick thinking, he tried to cover his tracks. "Any of y'all care to join us for a hand or two?" he called over to the trio.

The responses ranged from individual to individual. Mei expressed interest in joining, her soft features displaying a sense of curiosity and eagerness. Angela politely declined, no doubt put off by the smoky atmosphere he'd created in the corner.

Fareeha didn't even turn her head to look at him.

A slew of emotions bombarded him, all amplified in strength thanks to the power of bourbon pulsating through his system. Embarrassment gave way to melancholy gave way to frustration, and all of that led to anger. So Fareeha was mad at him about something – fine. He didn't know what it was, and frankly at this point, he didn't care. People got mad at each other all the time. Even Ana annoyed him at times when he was younger, and she might as well have been a saint to him. He still managed to talk his problems out with her because she was important to him, and that's just what people do when they care about someone.

So, what made Fareeha so special? What made her so put off that she couldn't even bother to look at him, let alone have a heart-to-heart. He and that damned woman had talked each other through so many tough times in the past, he felt like their bond was tighter than a cable on a suspension bridge. Yet here she was, doing everything in her power to make him feel like he belonged on an island alone rather than at Gibraltar with his friends.

The urge to play cards evaporated altogether. "Tell you what," he mumbled, "why don't you guys go ahead and play a hand without me." He grabbed his bottle and his glass and rose from the table.

For the first time all night, Zenyatta looked up at McCree and spoke to him. "I sense great discomfort within you," he said.

Torbjorn guffawed at that one, as did most of the others. They thought the monk had cracked a bit of dry wit at McCree's expense. He knew better, though. Zenyatta, though he did have a good humor about him, had not laughed at McCree's foolishness like the rest of the table. It seemed his powers of observation were just as strong as his humor.

"You got that right, partner," he intoned. He smiled, trying his best to keep up appearances. With a tip of his hat, he acknowledged the others, "If y'all excuse me for a bit."

In the corner of the room stood a lonely table far away from the noise of all the boisterous individuals. A cast of characters they were – a charismatic German crusader, a Russian weightlifter, a Brazilian musician… the list went on. All of them were in great spirits, all enjoying their bonding experience together. All McCree wanted was this lonely little table in the corner.

He settled in and threw his feet up on the table. No one paid him much mind and he was just fine with that. There was no need to begrudge them, no need to be mad. Whiskey just did that to a person, and he knew that the drink could bring back his old Deadlock temperament that Ana Amari had tried so hard to rid from his system, and it was best that he didn't say anything before he did something stupid.

He looked at his recently-poured shot and then back at Fareeha. She still hadn't glanced in his direction. Head swimming from the suddenly-prevalent alcohol, he shook his head and grumbled to himself. The shot burned its way down his throat and landed in the pit of stomach, singeing him the whole way through. Raising his empty shot glass in her direction, he said to no one in particular, "Here's to you, Sport."

He leaned his head back, hoping it would help bring the night to an end. Whiskey got the best of him again.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to all the reviewers for the input. DMWsmoker - there are at least two or three more flashbacks planned, as I feel the interactions of young Pharah, McCree, and Ana are all central to the story. In a slow burn, though, they won't be too prevalent throughout.**

 **This was not mentioned before, but the intention is for the chapters to alternate between the two leads POV with the infrequent flashback to sprinkle some flavor into the conversations.**

 **Sorry for the slow output. Sometimes the words come easy and sometimes they don't. Hopefully I can hit a groove soon.**


	5. A Rude Awakening

**A Rude Awakening**

Cotton mouth, a splitting headache, completely lethargic… suffice it to say, Fareeha woke up with a hangover that even Zenyatta would have been able to feel.

She woke up well before dawn for reasons that she hoped one day the almighty might be able to explain to her. The ungodly hour only hinted at the time through the fact that the sun's crescent hadn't even bothered to poke out over the horizon, making everything in the building envelope itself in the splendorous fluorescent tones of lights that begged to be turned back off.

Lord her head hurt. It hurt to even think of the direction she decided to point herself in because she certainly wasn't going to drift back to sleep without some sort of methodological attack on her system. Angela was, no doubt, still sound asleep in her quarters, which meant asking her for some sort of cure was out of the question. That left pretty much two options to Fareeha: hair of the dog, or a plate of pure grease. Both meant heading to the mess hall.

Blissful silence reverberated throughout the base. She welcomed it as gleeful as a child. The fortunate emptiness mean she only had to throw on a tank top and gym shorts as she wandered about, fearless of bumping into anyone she didn't want to. It felt impossible for her to feel so groggy and uncomfortable – she hadn't stayed out much later than anyone else. The old duo of Torbjorn and Reinhardt had been sharing a good, hearty laugh well into the evening… how would they feel when they woke up?

 _"You're getting old, Fareeha,"_ she thought to herself. Thirty-two-year-olds cannot drink like they are in their twenties, and she passed that milestone just a couple of months back. When she was younger, she never imagined having a splitting headache like this after a night of drinking, nor did she ever experience one, and not for a lack of drinking, either. Ana would have killed her knowing the shenanigans she could into with J-

"Oi!" a voice broke her solace.

 _"Oh god, anything but this,"_ she ached internally.

"Blimey, you're up early Fareeha." Drenched in a cockney accent, the perkiness gave away just who it was that happened to cross paths with Fareeha early in the morning.

She forced a smile, though she couldn't imagine it fooled anyone. "I could say the same to you, Tracer."

The spunky Brit waved the statement away. "When you're displaced in time, you tend to lose track of what time of day it is," she countered. She'd truly come a long way from her accident if she could crack a joke like that. "Besides, Emily was being a real tosspot and insisted we get an early night."

…Emily? Was that the name of her girlfriend? It was that or Bridgette. She really needed to sort this stuff out sooner than later. "Probably smart of her." Fareeha felt a sudden drain in her attentiveness and rubbed her eyes, only to realize that it brought another vicious wave of pain. Rubbing her temples, she continued, "You seem to be handling the morning better than me."

Tracer's face contorted a bit as if she'd just realized the Egyptian's current status of half-past-dead. "Oi, you don't look so hot." Fareeha gritted her teeth, causing Tracer to quickly pick up the fumble. "Look a good deal better than Jesse though. That cowboy didn't even make it out of the mess hall last night!"

She might've sucked all the air out of the room with the breath she drew on that one. "McCree's still in the mess hall?"

"And being a right wanker about things."

Somehow, it fit the morning she was having. From the hangover to hell to running into the most talkative person in Gibraltar, and now to having to cross paths with the last person she wanted to see to get some form of relief, she truly began to think the day was cursed. McCree hadn't shown a single inkling as to just what it was he did wrong, and that spoke volumes about the kind of guy he was. She grew up thinking of him as a best friend, someone who would do anything for her… but now, she knew better. "That doesn't surprise me in the least."

Tracer showed the kind of face anyone does when they're about to try and pry the details from a friend, but she never had time to ask Fareeha anything before a southern drawl sent the morning bad to terrible. "I'm only being a wanker because you smacked me in the face."

Sure enough, sauntering down the hall and looking all seven circles of hell, Jesse McCree made his way towards to the two ladies.

She gave him a good eyeroll, "I didn't smack you, Jesse, I tapped you a couple of times because you weren't responding to me yelling two feet away from you."

He grunted. "It ever occur to you that might've been deliberate?"

"Oh, don't be such a tosser, Jesse. I thought you might prefer a mattress to a chair and a table." Tracer shrugged and shook her head. "I didn't realize it's such a bad thing."

The cowboy, though clearly far from in any mood to laugh, chuckled as he scratched at his beard. "Now now, Lena, y'know I'm just hassling. I was just comfortable is all. Been sleeping outdoors for the better part of a few years now."

Against better judgment and all common sense, Fareeha interjected. "She was right to wake you, McCree. People will be getting up to use the mess hall for breakfast before long, and the new recruits might think you're some sort of drunkard."

Cold… those eyes he flashed at her, brief as they had been, were two icicles in a sandstorm. She knew those eyes – those were the eyes of young McCree. He gave her the look of a Deadlock Gang member ready to rain hell on the next person who crossed him… She'd never been on the receiving end of those eyes before. She never knew the depth of the loathing and hostility they carried. They'd only lasted for a split-second, and she prayed she'd never catch that look again. "So, all of a sudden, you care about what people think of me?"

She ached. She burned, she panged, and she agonized. Whether the feelings rooted themselves in her anger or her sadness of a friendship lost, she didn't know. She didn't care. All she knew was that she had to avoid making eye contact with that man for fear of the monster coming out. A frustrated shake of the head later, McCree mumbled out a few choice words and made his way away from the two ladies, briefly bumping into Fareeha as if he'd suddenly forgot she was even there. She never turned towards him.

Moments of silence lingered after that. The low hum of the generating continued pumping power into the pale light of the hallway. Its steady tone encouraged her brain to work overdrive, egging her on as she tried to figure out what to do or say to make everything better. On the outside, it was just her and Tracer sharing a moment of silence, the burden of which largely came from Fareeha. Internally, she'd cranked up the volume to the proverbial eleven. If she could wish for one thing, it would be to stand there in silence for a good five minutes.

The morning paid her no favors. "Look love, I… don't mean to pry, but this thing with you and Jes-

"I'm sorry Tracer," Fareeha cut in. She never prided herself on patience, and given the rude awakening that was this entire experience, she had no time to wait for people to air out their sentences. "I don't want to talk about it."

Tracer smiled, her face bittersweet. The girl could talk an ear right off the side of one's head, but she knew when to drop a topic. People who didn't know her probably thought of the Brit as an inflated seven-year-old – someone with no social awareness and a personality that existed in the bubble. Fareeha knew better, though. She'd heard the whole story about the Slipstream Incident and why Tracer had to keep that Chronal Accelerator nearby. She'd been through times more trying than Fareeha dreamed she'd never have to fathom. "Well… if you ever _do_ want to talk about it, you know where to find me, luv."

Fareeha, perhaps for the first time all morning, managed to force out a sincere smile. "Thank you, Tracer. I'll keep that in mind."

She waved it off, "Don't mention it." With a wink and a point that came off far too much like McCree, she spun around and made to walk off, only to pause and turn one final time. "Oh, and call me Lena, luv. We're mates now, and mates don't use field names!"

Always the gregarious one. Fareeha had to give her a lot of credit – no one could cheer you up quicker than Lena Oxton in a good mood. "Okay, Lena."

Almost as if that were some sort of queue, Lena spun back around and blinked out of sight in the same direction as McCree had strolled off just moments ago. _"Don't you dare go talk to your cowboy compadre about, though,"_ she warned no one in particular.

Finally left once again to her own devices, she set off down the hall in determined fashion. Her headache only got worse, and after that little interruption, she had fully settled on having breakfast and _not_ a pick-me-up drink. McCree might've been okay looking like an alcoholic, but that wasn't Fareeha. That _was not_ her, and she was going to make damn sure everyone knew it.

Where did he get off saying she didn't care about people's feelings? Was he truly that clueless? He swam in an ocean of hypocrisy if he really believed that he hadn't wronged anyone in his past. Voices raged inside her head:

" _You're both hungover, both grumpy."_

" _That doesn't mean he should have said what he did."_

" _You've been giving him the cold shoulder."_

" _He gave me the cold shoulder for more than five years."_

" _That bit about him being a drunkard… that was too far."_

" _I don't care."_

What a complete and total disaster. She'd given up so much at Helix Security to finally join Overwatch. Even if it was a shadow of its old self, she achieved her dream. She had to get past this, had to will Jesse McCree out of mind. She was an adult now, why the hell did this plague her so much?

She pushed it out of her mind. Truth be told, she wanted anyone or _anything_ to distract her now. She wasn't hung up on him – she just didn't have anything better to do. The mixer seemed like a good launching pad for team comradery, so maybe she could parlay that into some sort of training drill with a few of the new team members? Or maybe Talon would finally poke their ugly heads out and she could do what she was meant to do. She was restless, anxious… she was _bored._

God, it'd only been three days. It couldn't possibly get any harder from here, could it?

* * *

 **A/N - Wew lad... I'm not totally stoked about this chapter, but it's gone through three or four rewrites and I need to get passed it, especially since I think the pacing needs to pick up (both story-wise and writing-wise). Next couple of chapters are going to be pretty important, but I needed to get at least two POV's done to put the pieces in places. Now the opening moves begin.**

 **As an aside - thank you everyone who has followed/favorite/reviewed! I honestly didn't expect as much attention as this has gotten - it'll actually motivate me to keep writing for once.**

 **Cheers!**


	6. The Heat of Battle

**The Heat of Battle**

A third intense wave of heat from a rocket landing mere meters away sent an already-frustrated McCree into a downright frenzy. "Goddamn it, Pharah, you think you fire one of those things off without singeing my eyebrows?"

"If you can't take the heat, stay out of Egypt," she shot back. Cool, confident, calm… McCree had to admit, she was born to do this.

"I can handle the Egyptian Sun just fine, Pharah, it's those damn rockets that are going to melt my skin off!" he drawled in his thick American accent.

The entire statement was made of half-truths. Firstly, Egypt was _far_ hotter than he'd anticipated, to the point that even a south-westerner such as himself had a tough time not sweating profusely. Bright sunrays reflecting off the sandstone and desert floor didn't help matters, either. Hell, they exacerbated the situation by both making him hotter _and_ partially blinding him.

Secondly, a rocket did not nearly melt his skin off, but it did throw up some shrapnel that struck his mechanical arm hard enough to make him worry about losing it again. Fareeha may be good at what she did, but he knew she was too overzealous for her own good.

"Oi, can it you two," he heard Tracer's voice come over the coms. "We got a mission to focus on, yeah?"

Almost simultaneous with that lovely reminder, McCree heard the plodding footsteps of two Talon agents behind him. Instincts took over, and McCree whipped around, snapping a 180-turn like he'd learned all those years ago, and loosed two quick rounds from his Peacemaker. _Bang! Bang!_ Before the agents could even register they'd been had, their bodies clumped against the sandy earth below them, lifeless and still.

"Right, let's move," he said, immune to the deaths from a life of carnage.

The team was a mix of the old and new – Reinhardt and Tracer joined him as part of the old guard while Fareeha and Lucio represented the up and comers. Fareeha was a logical choice – she spent most of her military career at the Temple protecting the dangerous AI within from wreaking havoc or, worse, winding up in the wrong hands. Lucio fit in as moral and literal support, and while shooting down Talon agents to a beat came as a new experience, McCree certainly found the appeal in it.

They moved like a well-oiled machine, mechanical and flawless. Between thundering booms of Fareeha's rockets punishing Talon agents in the distance, the rapports of McCree's Peacemaker, and the occasional thunderous gust of air that Tracer's pulse bombs sent out, one thing felt certain to McCree: Overwatch meant business, and that business had a fresh soundtrack.

Before long, they found themselves pushing up towards the Fountain Plaza, the first stronghold of Talon agents. Fire became oppressive, tearing even Reinhardt's sturdy shield down to a shattering paper plate. "Barrier's down!" he called for possibly the third time, "Stand back!"

McCree ducked around the wall, thin red streaks of machine gun fire blazing by his face so close it threatened to take his nose. "Anyone got any bright ideas?" he called out.

A brief moment of silence followed as everyone bowed their head, trying to think of how to break the sturdy resistance. "I can't charge another mine for pulse yet," Tracer stated. "It'll be a bit."

Much to his surprise, the solution came from the new recruits, both contributing interesting ideas to work with. "I can send a sharp jolt of energy to my speaker box… I tried it once when I got in a bind against Vishkar and wound up covered in a thin lair of protective energy."

How this shit worked, McCree would never know.

Fareeha piped in shortly after, "If you can pull that off, I have a sort of trump-card I can use against them, but everyone would have to push them back into a corner," she said. "If you get them bundled together, I can set my suit to unload everything it's got into them – it'll be _extremely_ destructive though, so be sure you're clear of the blast."

"It'd be best if we only use one for this," McCree said through the coms. "We've gotten held up here longer than anticipated and Talon could well be hacking into Anubis' core as we speak… and God knows what they'd send our way of they pull that off."

Optimism from Lucio's thumbs-up only lasted a moment. "Well, here's the problem," Fareeha responded. "The barrage will render my jet system temporarily disabled… I'd be completely stationary in the sky and easy to pick out… Lucio's barrier _might_ do the trick and keep my alive, though."

A weird feeling swept over McCree. His whole body went cold, but his stomach turned and went in the opposite direction. He froze a moment, unaware of the bullets passing by his face. The Talon agents weren't expert marksmen to be sure, but even they could pick an oversized bird out of the sky with little difficulty. She'd have to find a way to get in a position that only the ones in danger could fire back, and even then, it was a risk.

"I say we go for it!" Tracer called out.

"I… have a doubt," McCree chimed in. He reserved judgement that perhaps they shared a surge of overconfidence from getting this far with little difficulty.

"Trust me, McCree. I can do this," Pharah said.

He relented, but remained damn unhappy about it nonetheless. It all felt too risky – Talon could spare these men simple as could be, but could Overwatch really spare anyone? Their numbers were far too few as was, and here was Fareeha, trying to play hero and save the day. "If you say so kiddo," he said without a hint of joy.

"Don't call me kiddo," she said back. They truly could not stop bickering. No doubt it wore thin on everyone else.

"Right, let's move!" Reinhardt declared. His demeanor, regardless of the shade being thrown around, remained ever so boisterous.

Appropriately, he sprung out first and threw his shield up. McCree followed suit and start firing his Peacemaker. This time, though, he wasn't shooting to kill like before. No, he shot to suppress, aiming heavy on his right where Lena sped ahead to annoy the living hell out of that flank. Fareeha, in the meanwhile, laid down heavy rocket fire on the left side, including one nonfatal shot that caused a surge of air to push any Talon agents sitting on the high ground flying to the ground, landing hard with a thud and barely able to recollect their thoughts.

Their movements came into synch, driven and pure. Reinhardt drove forward, resetting every few steps to keep his shield charged and in-tact. McCree popped shot after shot from behind, making sure to inch their opposition further and further back. Lucio's music surged louder, giving McCree's adrenaline a good jolt, and all the while, Tracer and Pharah harassed the living hell out of anyone who tried to fight back. This was what they lacked before – now they had a clear plan unifying their motions, giving them purpose and reason.

In an instant, Fareeha shouted as if having an epiphany, "I'm going for it!"

And he'd be damned if her warnings weren't enough to behold the spectacle that was the rocket barrage she unleashed on the poor bastards who'd been back into a corner. McCree thought the heat was getting to him – he was wrong. _This_ heat burned more intense than a red dwarf star as a next-door neighbor. Violent bursts of noises became impossible to distinct form one another, creating a steady drum of deafening explosions bouncing off the temple walls around them. Dozens of small rockets ejected from anywhere her custom armor would allow, unloading a wave of explosions on a section of the Temple that no doubt the old structure had never been designed to withstand. Through some small favor of whichever God, supposedly Anubis, it was built for, the sandstone held up against the intense wave, proving to be sturdier build than the Talon agents that piled up in a messy heap in the corner.

The attack, violent and sudden, proved to be a complete success. Fareeha floated gently to the ground, a smirk on her face as the team stared at her in awe. "I always get my prey," she said. No matter how hot the air around him felt, the chill in his spine came far sharper.

"They're still people, Fareeha," he muttered under his breath.

Either ignored or unheard, the others continued to converse about the task at hand. "If Winston's right, we got about ten minutes before Talon manages to hijack the Anubis AI," Tracer said. "Oi, Pharah, how long you think it'll take to get inside the temple?"

Fareeha, who was in the process of restocking her Falcon Rocket launcher with brand new ammunition, responded with an almost methodical tone about her. "It's hard to tell," she started, "The temple was designed to be harder to penetrate the closer you got to the entrance. If Talon is as sharp as they were here, it'll be tricky for sure."

Reinhardt pounded his fist into his chest and let out a boisterous declaration, "Then we haven't a moment to lose!"

Things always operated this way in battle. Take one strategic position, push to the next without any time to collect your thoughts or assess the situation. What momentum they had was purely perceived, but looking at the combination of people they had on their team – the noble knight Reinhardt, the ever-ready nonstop machine Tracer, the young hot-blooded recruits Pharah and Lucio… this was a team that was not designed to think, but to move and never stop. In the middle of all of it was a cowboy whose sole purpose was to suppress the enemy with precision firing, something that became far more of a challenge for him to accomplish with his feet moving a mile a minute underneath him.

Not that he couldn't do it – they started moving immediately and he downed to agents trying to go for a cheeky flank after all, but it wasn't his forte. This operation called for someone like Genji, who could clean up any mess that Tracer of Pharah started. McCree was all about landing the shot on a single target, those three were about focusing down multiple targets in a tight location.

Reinhardt marched ahead, his shield at the ready. The stretch between the fountain plaza and the archway that was the temple entrance felt oddly quiet, with only the two stragglers he just popped off on providing any resistance. Lucio's music hummed, Tracer's chronal accelerator _plinked_ as she dashed from location to the next, and Pharah's jetpack provided a stead hum above, and slightly behind as well. Air stilled in an oppressive heat, the sandstone structures only capturing the mucky feeling it created. Sweat covered his brow, hardly doing any work to keep his body cool through all this mess.

Then there was the sun. McCree's greatest asset wasn't necessarily his Peacemaker or his mechanical arm that allowed for quick reloads – no, it was a simple choice of attire in a cowboy hat that allowed him to keep the sun out of his eyes when he shot. Most people thought of his hat as just a silly, old-fashioned and outdated stylistic preference. They were half-right – McCree loved the whole look to be sure. That said, they never considered how good the brim was at enabling McCree's eyes to relax and lock on to targets in a heartbeat.

Likely, it was these reasons that he was the first to recognize the major threat they were pushing into. The Talon agents themselves, they were nothing but small potatoes that could easily be fried into tater tots by any one member of their team. A sudden glare that burned his retina signaled only one thing to McCree, and that thing terrified him.

A blinding light flashed across his face, his eyes squinted shut for a moment as his brain scrambled to catch up with his instincts.

Too late, he shouted out over the com system. "Sniper! Keep your head down!"

A single, deafening burst of noise echoed off the walls around him, a red trail blazing above his head to some unknown target. His heart leapt into his throat, and his spine stiffened as he instinctively tried to roll for cover. He froze on the spot.

Vaguely, he heard Lucio call out to the team. "I'm clear, anyone hit?" His voice had a notable edge that it lacked moments ago, the fear no doubt experienced by a prey who can sense its natural predator nearby.

Snipers always got their prey.

Before anyone could respond or acknowledge the question, McCree spun a sharp 180, his eyes locking upward on the sky, and his body chilled to unknown temperatures as he saw Fareeha's body floating down to the earth with a sharp red bullet trail passing through her previous position against the sickening blue sky.

 _"She can't die,"_ the thought superseded. His drive to survive and the mission all left his brain. _"God help me, she can't die."_

 **A/N - Sorry for the extremely slow updates. I work a full-time job, so balancing side projects and hobbies isn't easy and this endeavor isn't high up on my list of things to do at the moment, sadly. I am trying to focus on it more now, though! Thank you anyone who left kind words for me.**

 **So yeah, I won't leave this on a cliffhanger for too long, I promise. The next chapter's outline is already laid out, so I should be able to hammer it out sooner than later - certainly faster than this one.**


	7. Blood and Sand

**Blood and Sand**

If Fareeha could take solace in one thing at that exact moment, it's that she wasn't dead. Well… at least, she didn't think she was. Unless God also had the voice of Reinhardt, it seemed fairly likely. "Fareeha," his accented concern dripped through the com, "Fareeha report in – are you okay?"

Okay was pretty damn relevant. Her entire body ached. The fall wasn't short, and her armor could only do so much when it came to padding the landing. Her only saving grace came in the form of her shock absorber system that kept her from breaking both her legs when she hit the ground. Her body crumpled into a heap all the same, but at least she'd walk again.

The worst pain was where the bullet hit her in the lower-left ribcage. With Herculean effort, she responded to the distressed German, "I'm fine," she told them. "Had a hard landing, but otherwise I'm good to go."

"Can you fly?"

She paused a moment, observing the damage done to her jetpack. Her sapphire armor's smooth surface found itself interrupted by jagged, black shards with fuel leaking down the back of her suit. "Negative," she said as she assessed the gaping hole in her left jet. "I'll be an unstable mess if I try to go up again."

"Right – stay where you are!" Tracer called out. "We'll get you out of there in a jiffy."

An old memory came back to her just then – one from this very temple. She saw one of her comrades fall in a similar fashion, struck and injured. By some saving grace, she knew deep in her heart that keeping him alive would be important to the mission. And no matter how many bots the rogue AI sent at them, no matter how suppressive the enemy fire, she determined that she could not and _would not_ let her man die.

This, sadly, was a different sort of operation. Steeling her nerves, she gathered herself up and gave them one of the hardest responses she'd ever have to muster. "You need to keep going forward," she told them. "I can make my way back to the ship on foot – my jetpack's out, but my legs still work."

A long, dreadful silence greeted her for a bit after that. The kind of silence where you know people on the other end are making tough decisions – the kind of silence she shared on when her own decision had to be made. "Are you sure you can make it back to the ship?" Reinhardt asked. "There may be some Talon agents we missed on the way in."

"I still have my rocket launcher to handle anyone who wants to try me."

She heard a heavy breath on the other end, and in the background some sort of commotion was breaking out. No doubt the next wave of resistance had found their way to her teammates. The only words she could make out were from Tracer, "-back to the bloody ship!"

After that, it was just her and the quiet alcove she found herself lying in. In the distance, she could hear the eruption of more gunfire, the pulsating clashes of gunpowder rapports slithering off the walls around her. It made her sad. Her team was pushing forward without her, driving towards a goal and making glory. Then there she was, lying on the ground in a useless mess of cracked armor and even-worse pride. All she wanted to do with her life was join Overwatch, and then on her very first mission, she fouled up something fierce. What a sad story her life seemed like in that very moment. One tragedy after another, some minor and some major, just a string of events where she fell a few inches short. An old proverb shot through her head at that very moment. Always a bridesmaid, never a-

Her peace fell apart the moment a body came falling from above, and with all the grace of a snail in a footrace. Reflexes sharper than her body would allow for, she raised her rocket launcher a moment too late, and her ambusher lazily smacked it out of his face. His body blocked the Sun and caused the light around her to dim. Whoever it was looked ridiculous, that much she knew. They garbed themselves in some sort of superhero getup, cape and all and… oh good lord, was it really…?

"What the hell are you doing here?" she damn near spat out.

The most familiar voice she knew gave her a smooth-as-silk response, filled to the brim with a steady southern drawl. "Don't mind me," Jesse McCree said to her, "Just trying to look chivalrous."

Did he ever stop? "Is that one from another one of your movies?"

McCree pursed his lips and gestured in the negative. "Think it was a TV show," he answered. "Westworld, if I'm not mistaken."

Resisting every fiber of her being to roll her eyes, she gritted her teeth. "You didn't answer my question, McCree."

The cowboy shrugged. "Heard your voice in the com, Fareeha," he said. "I know when you're trying to sound strong, and I'll be damned if those weren't the most strained words I've heard this side of the Mississippi."

He maintained such a leisure appearance that she often forgot McCree was a trained Blackwatch operative, and someone who was well-versed in the art of lying… That, and he knew her better than most anyone left alive. All the same, she needed to convince him that she didn't need his help, and her own will had persuaded her that she'd be just fine without him, thank you very much. "I just sprained my ankles on the landing," she said, "The shocks in the armor weren't designed to take a free-fall landing."

An unconvinced face finally matched her own. For a brief moment, a softness came about him, tired and longing. "You took a bullet, Fareeha," he said to her. "A round from a sniper rifle."

"It just cracked the armor," she told him, "and maybe a rib or two."

Her ribcage _did_ hurt like hell. Just saying the word rib made her side ache and her abdomens strained and tired. What's more, it felt _hot_ underneath her armor, burning right through her insides. All she wanted was some water.

Her old friend grew a tender side all of a sudden, one she hadn't seen since the day she found him on an operating table. "Fareeha," his voice came out spiced with ginger, "move your hand."

As the old proverb goes, she was caught red handed. With all deliberate pacing, she lifted her left hand off her ribcage, and showed him the hole that burrowed right through her body. The round didn't just crack her armor – it shattered it, and it spun its little red tail through her body and cracked her jetpack as it burst out the other end, bringing with it a pain she didn't think possible. For the first time since she felt that sensation, she bothered to look down at her palm, and saw her once-pristine crystal armor painted with a fresh coat of crimson red.

"Jesus…" he muttered. Without prompting or hesitation, McCree took off his hat and removed his serape. Folding it with experienced, quick hands, he slapped it against her hand, and then forced her to smother her wound with it. "Can you keep pressure on it?" he asked as he plucked his hat off the dusty earth.

"Yes." She spoke sharp and determined, forcing herself to stay strong. "I guess I owe you a new garment," she said.

McCree tipped the brim of his hat with his forefinger and thumb. "This one's on the house," he told her. "Least I could do for an old friend."

Jesse McCree made a career out of talking his way around the world, getting in and out of secure locations through sheer charm alone. Had he been talking to anyone else, he would have gotten just want he wanted then and there: for her to tell him why she resented him these days, and maybe she would… but inside, her mind carried on. _"It's not the time,"_ a little voice echoed around inside her skull. _"He wants you to say something, but you aren't dying. You'll make it through this… Now isn't the time."_

Lucky for her, his attention shifted back to the task at hand. "McCree here," he called over coms.

"Oi, you tosser!" Lena's harsh voice barked at him through coms. "We got our hands full up here because of you."

While he didn't retort, his body language said a whole lot of words that didn't need repeating. "You telling me your little time tricks aren't enough to handle a few Talon piss-ants?"

Words were exchanged then that Fareeha had never heard before, but she could pick up the meaning all too well. A solid monologue of filth and anger directed at a simple old cowboy. It took Lucio cutting in to stop her ranting. "Hey Rein, if I give you a little speed boost, you think you can drop the hammer on those fools on the right side?"

"Haha! You think I'm an amateur?! Let me show you how it's done!"

Off the coms, McCree chuckled, "Well at least _he's_ having a good time." It was a good thing her ribs hurt so bad, because if they hadn't, she would've let loose a mean laugh then and there. Foregoing waiting for her to respond, he continued to the others, "Any word on that sniper?"

"Haven't seen her since the first few shots," Lena replied, the rapid release of her pulse rounds coming through the system. "She might've turned back around for you two."

McCree swore under his breath and swiped his free hand against the ground, kicking up some stand. "Roger that," he responded. "Listen, about Faree- "

Before her brain could take control of arm, her instincts drove it forward, and her hand clasped around McCree's wrists. His voice cutoff immediately, looking down at the unexpected contact with a mixture of confusion and shock. His eyes drifted slowly upwards, and she felt him looking _Jesse_ her for the first time in as long as she could remember instead of McCree, and when he saw her steely gaze, he knew that telling the truth would jeopardize the whole operation.

Being a part of Blackwatch, the man had a knack for telling a lie. "Both her legs took a rough landing. I'll see her back to the archway and clean up any mess you leave behind. Shouldn't take but a minute or two."

"Roger that," Reinhardt declared, "but I don't leave _anything_ behind!"

"Over and out." Jesse switched off his com and gingerly removed his hat. "You know," he said as he stared at the brim and twirled it between his hands repeatedly, "This outfit wasn't cheap." Something clearing irking the back of his skull, Jesse saw a nearby crate, shimmied over to it, and with a quick thrust of his right leg, busted it apart. "You're going to owe me one for this."

Only he could make such a dumb remark at a time like this. She was bleeding out, scared to death that it'd be the last bit of her life force to stick around, and here he was rambling on about his own damn wardrobe. "I never told you to come back!" she let out. "And I certainly never asked for your precious little poncho to get bloodied."

He dropped his shoulders, resigned. "Fareeha," he said to her, "shut up."

Before she could retort, McCree took one of the boards from the shattered crate and gently placed his hat on end. He did it was such care - like a parent guiding their pet into the back of a vehicle. His sweaty, matted brown hair clung to the back of his neck and the top of his head, looking as though it hadn't seen a good wash in ages. She couldn't help but wonder if that truly was the case or if the heat or battle or god knows what caused him to leak like a faucet.

It only dawned on her what he intended to do when he flattened his back against one of side of the alcove they found themselves in and slid to the edge. There were no more echoes of battle, no more noises to be heard. Whatever fight their comrades had locked themselves into must've been into the temple now, where long sightlines came precious few and the air would only light up with the aid of a candle, or in this case, the discharging of rifles. The stage seemed perfect for Tracer to dive in and out of the fight, causing waves of chaos to erupt, and chaos was not good for one thing.

Jesse tipped the board diagonally pas the edge of the wall, even his robotic arm tense from anticipation.

 _CRACK!_

A loud shot spat out from behind him, and ejected in to the air, little pieces of brown confetti sprinkling back down to the earth below them in a somber dance.

Jesse, for his part, scrambled backwards from the edge. "Welp," he said without turning his head away from the direction his hat flew off in, "I'd say we're sitting ducks right about now." He flashed her an apologetic look, exhaled, and then plucked a cigarillo from his pocket. After placing it between his lips, he tapped the com back to 'on' and informed the team of the situation. "McCree to squad: the sniper never followed you in. You're in the clear."

He flipped it off before Tracer got halfway through a response. No need for him to ramble on about their compromised position. It wouldn't be long before the sniper would reposition and get the drop on them, and likely would manage this maneuver long before Talon found themselves completely neutralized.

Jesse dug a match from his pocket, and snapped a pair of mechanical fingers against the tip. For a moment, the pleasant-by-comparison scent of a freshly lit match drowned out the now-lingering stench that was expelled gunpowder and charred flesh.

This was her home, her temple. She knew it like the back of her hand, and here she was, stuck with a man she swore she'd never talk to again contemplating what looked more and more like the closing seconds of her life. It'd either be the quick, easy snap of a rifle from some stranger a mile away with a face she'd never know, or the long, eking feeling of blood seeping out from her fresh wound, wearing her down as the long day dragged on. It didn't matter which, really. Dying as an agent of Overwatch in her motherland fighting the good fight… She had to admit, there was a certain poetry to it.

A long, painful silence echoed off the walls now. No shuffling footsteps of Talon operatives. No casual chatter from Jesse McCree… How was he coping with all of this? He'd been reluctant to rejoin from the word go, and she knew it, and unlike her he was sitting on the opposite side of the world from a place he grew up in, surrounded by people who either mocked or resented him.

Perhaps, she thought, she'd better bring it up sooner than later. "Jesse."

He raised his head from the somber stupor he'd taken on in the moments before. "Hm?" he asked, not bothering to remove the now half-burnt cigarillo from his lips.

 _"Steel yourself,"_ she thought. _"This isn't a grudge you want to die with."_

She cleared her throat, and with a lot of effort, pushed herself up to a straightened position, wanting to slump against the wall in a sad heap no longer. A sharp stinging sensation flared up inside her; she did not care. Maybe the wound was mortal and maybe it wasn't – she _was not_ going to let it get the best of her.

"Listen, Jesse, I think we need to ta-

Their heart-to-heart got postponed by a voice with an odd sort of familiarity to it. Gruff and deep, like a man who'd done his fair share of shouting in life, it came through their com system with all the markings of a professional. "You kids look like you're in a tight spot."

McCree moved quick, and left their conversation behind even quicker. "Who the hell is this?" he said as he sprang into a kneeling position. He scurried over to the edge of their little nook of safety, not daring to scoot any further than half-a-body-length. "This is private frequency!"

A deep, throaty chuckle responded. "No time to talk about the minutea, cowboy. We've got your little sniper on the move, but we can probably only keep her pinned down for so long."

"The hell do you mean 'we'? Can I at least get a name, here?"

After a momentary pause, he gave him a quieter, gentler tone. "I don't have a name… I'm just a Soldier."

* * *

 **A/N - I don't normally like adding contemporary references to stories set seventy years in the future, but something tells me McCree would find the appeal of a show about robots acting out the stereotypes of the old west. Just a thought.**

 **Thanks for the continued support! You guys are great.**


	8. Nightengale

**Nightingale**

McCree couldn't remember the journey back to the ship exactly. It all happened so damn quick that he didn't have time to think about what he was doing. Soldier and his partner, Shrike, kept barking orders at him, telling him when to move and in what direction. He listened and he followed their orders, the reasons for which he could not explain other than something about them seemed oddly trustworthy. Or maybe he was just desperate.

Either way, by the time he made it back to the ship, he found himself toeing the balance between exhausted and wound-up. Egypt was damned hot, and dragging around a body covered in a suit of armor with a damn jetpack around only made things a hundred times worse. His tongue felt like sandpaper rubbing away at the roof of his mouth, parched to the surface.

In spite of this, it didn't stop him from dragging Fareeha up the ramp and gently laying her on the floor. "Athena!" he barked, "You online?"

"I'm online McCree, how can I-

"No time for pleasantries, sorry – I need you to patch an emergency transmission to Gibraltar for Dr. Angela Ziegler pronto!"

Athena silently responded and the ship's vid screen blinked to life almost the moment he finished talking. "I've patched you through Jesse. I've taken the liberty of preparing two glasses of cold water as well."

Huffing from the exhaustion of the whole day, he lumbered his way over to the beverage area and grabbed the two drinks of water. It barely registered in his system that he'd downed his entire glass the instant he grabbed it, the cold liquid chilling his insides as his empty stomach received the brunt of the refreshment. God, it was everything he'd ever dreamed of. For just a split-second, he dared to take a moment to himself and let the ship's cooling units work a bit of wonder on him… Jesus, he must've been on the border of heat exhaustion before he got back to this damned rig.

By the time he turned around, Soldier had made his way back to the ship, pulse rifle in hand and some sort of cannister in the other.

His Blackwatch instincts kicked in, and his revolver found itself pointed at the very same person who helped him find his way back to the ship. "The hell do you think you're doing there, partner?" the accusing tone not quite being intentional.

The two stilled in their positions, McCree with his gun drawn clean on the soldier, the drop clearly his. For Soldier's part, he didn't show any intimidation or fear… his brow scrunched a bit as if annoyed, but other than that, he barely even moved. "Relax, kid," he said to McCree. "I just got you two back to this ship. If I wanted to hurt you, I would've by now."

Sweat dripped from an eyebrow, trickled down his stubbled face, and then dropped on to the ship's floor before he responded. "No offense, but I've been burned one too many times to trust a silver platter."

"Silver platter?" Soldier's growly voice returned.

McCree had the advantage, the home turf, _and_ he had the loaded gun. Any other situation, he might've laughed about how strong his position was… but this was no normal situation… not with Fareeha's faint breathing breaking the still air. "Old expression," he said, "Unconditional favors aren't trustworthy."

"Who said anything about unconditional?"

Now _that_ caused McCree to hesitate. Simply put, there was too much to this stranger for McCree's liking. A former super-soldier happening upon an Overwatch/Talon conflict was a hell of a coincidence, and for him to seem to know the playbook step-by-step came off as awfully suspicious… and now here he was, wanting to bargain with a cowboy who had a loaded gun drawn dead-bang at his head? The man had huevos – McCree had to give him that.

"…Right," was all he could stupidly say.

Their little Mexican standoff (sans Mexicans) found an interruption in the way of a rather feminine Swiss accent. "McCree? Jesse McCree?"

All he wanted to do was close his eyes and find some form of sweet relief, but unfortunately, he was staring down Captain America incarnate and couldn't draw his eyes away from him for the moment. "Mercy." The codename never rang truer to him than it did just then.

"Heavens, Jesse-

"Will you not call me that when we're in the field?"

The expected sass came after that little retort. "Well I'm not the one who chose their own surname as a codename, now am I?"

You know what? He didn't care anymore. "Whatever!" he proclaimed as he shrugged, his revolver now pointed about as far away from the Solider as possible. "Listen, _Angela_ ," he hissed, "Pharah's taken a shot clean through her ribcage and she's bleeding hard."

"Tell me exactly what happened, McCree!" Mercy said, the urgency in her voice hidden as thinly as possible.

He dropped his revolver and motioned for the Soldier to lower… well, whatever it was he was holding. The man did so without much fuss, albeit slowly and carefully. "It'll help her, kid. It's a biotic field… It helps close wounds."

Trust did not come naturally to McCree, and he thanked whatever his lucky star was that Mercy overheard what he had said an intervened. "When you two are done with your pissing contest, I'll have you know that I'm the one with the medical expertise here and am in charge. Now I don't know who you are, but you're going to listen to me very carefully." She broke her speech to establish her authority, and the Soldier rubbed the back of his head in a surprisingly embarrassed way. "A biotic field will help close wounds, but I need more facts before I clear deploying one for her. Now again, Jesse: Tell me exactly what happened."

Condescending tone aside, her reply definitively put him as the second-in-charge of the situation. "It was a sniper round… Hit her when she was airborne, so there wasn't anything Reinhardt or the others could do to protect her from it. The round pierced the armor and went clean through her. Frankly, it's a damned miracle it didn't ignite her jetpack."

Angela frowned, and McCree knew things just got a whole lot more dire. "We can't deploy a biotic field if the bullet went through her. Armor shards and pieces of cloth could've gotten lodged inside the wound."

The Soldier grunted and immediately attached the field to his belt. "How exactly do we go about doing that?" he asked.

"Forget the 'We' in that sentence, partner," McCree spat. "I'm not about to trust some random vigilante with my friend's life."

"An extra pair of hands can get things done a hell of a lot-

Mercy cut in before the exchange could get any more heated. "You have a woman with a gunshot wound passing out on the medical table next to you. Stop your bickering and follow my instructions."

"… Whatever you say, doc," McCree responded.

A wave of shame swept over him in a way that he wasn't quite ready to deal with. This whole situation was beyond out of control. Angela, of course, was one hundred percent accurate: Fareeha was what mattered most right now, and here he was acting like some kind of bigshot who tried to claim ownership over her welfare. What the hell kind of behavior was that? It was as if he went back in time and tried to play the hotshot cowboy in Blackwatch all over again… He thought he'd buried that part of him a long time ago. Old habits were hard to kill.

McCree reached up and, for the first time all day, removed his hat and let it drop to the floor. He placed both palms on the medical table and stared down at the struggling Fareeha. "Just tell me what to, doc." He hoped he didn't sound as desperate as felt.

"I'm sorry, Soldier, but this will be quite delicate and I have to ask you to leave the ship for a moment," Mercy said to him.

The old man removed himself from the area without complaint. All he did was give McCree a single nod in response – perhaps wishing him luck?

Once McCree made sure he was outside of the ship, Angela instructed him to close the loading ramp before continuing. "Jesse, have you cleaned a gunshot wound before?" she asked. He had – part of being in Blackwatch meant knowing how to take care of any injuries sustained in the field. "Then you understand the next step."

"We need to get her out of her armor," he acknowledged.

Without another word, he gently reached under Fareeha's back, her breathing now slow and shallow, her eyes closed lightly. If she felt this movement, she didn't give any physical response to it. It could only mean bad things if that was the case.

Out of his peripheral, he saw the Soldier quietly make his way outside the ship, apparently seeing his comrade approaching in the desert sand, their rifle eased against their soldier. It occurred to him that, if they really wanted to wreak havoc on the Overwatch team, they could've just put a hole in him from a distance been done with it. So, for the moment at least, he decided to trust his better judgement and kept them out of his mind.

He sat Fareeha up and slung her arm over his shoulders for support. She coughed lightly, her breath still shallow and weak. McCree moved quick and precise. After a quick scan over her blue protective covering, he found the mechanism that unlocked it. It took a bit of effort to spin the lock – not surprising considering it had to stay fastened through a firefight and withstand quick changes in motion. The armor itself felt surprisingly light for as tough as it was, but the jetpack itself more than compensated for that. Between the fuel within and the thicker armor coating to protect the combustible parts within, he had to lift it off of Fareeha's body with more force than he anticipated.

The armor clunked on the ship's metal surface, it's metallic echo ringing through his ears. He left the legging on – no need to go too far in the process. A damp, black muscle shirt clung tightly to Fareeh's body, sweat pouring from every inch of her skin.

McCree saw the hole in her shirt immediately. The jagged edges of the torn cotton windowed a clean, millimeters-wide hole that slowly leaked blood from her system. "Doc," he said in a knowing tone, "her shirt's definitely missing a piece."

"Do you see any pieces of cloth or fabric around the wound?"

He shook his head in a glum fashion. "Nothing – there's no way to tell whether it's stuck in there or not, either."

"Very well," Angela said. "To the right of the medical table you'll find a small panel in the wall – inside it there should be a gray box." McCree looked over to the side and was able to spot the panel almost instantly. He pried it open and saw a small gathering of medical essentials: needles, bandages, aesthetic… the works. The small gray box was in the lower-left corner. He grabbed it and raised it towards the ship's camera. "That's it. Inside is a small device that you'll need to place on top of her wound."

He did as instructed and followed her orders to a T from there on out. It automatically clung to her skin when he applied it, and he pressed a button. Fascinated, he stood there and watched as the little bots come to life and start to dig their way around Fareeha's skin. Little by little, he could see specks of black start to rise out of her wound. It all looked some strange, ceremonial dance to him. The bots went in, and brought back out shards of blue and black. Technology definitely passed him by while he was out there on his own, instilling no end of distrust as he made his through the world. The bots even convenienced him by assembling the shirt and armor fragments to produce a better picture of the whole.

After about two minutes, they slowed to a crawl and then dug their way back into the box. Automatically, it detached from her skin. "Okay, Doc, I think it's done," he said.

Angela exhaled from her nostrils, so close to the videocam that it sounded as if she blew into the speaker. "Good, Jesse. Now I need you to get the soldier out side back into the ship and allow him to deploy the biotic field."

McCree wiped his brow with his and flicked a dozen droplets of sweat on to the ship's metal floor. "You think we can trust him?" he asked.

"Frankly," came her thick, Swiss accent, "I don't care."

"Right then," he said.

He grabbed Soldier and in the distance saw the silhouette of the Shrike approaching. If the soldier seemed a mysterious character to McCree, this one approached him like a damn Escher painting – no matter how hard he'd stare and try to figure it out, the illusion would reassemble itself and trick you into thinking its normal again. Unlike the Soldier, whose figure you could try and piece together through his mask, theirs was completely shrouded. A mask and hood blanked out any hope of deciphering even the first hint of who they were.

McCree pushed his intrigue aside for now and watched as the Soldier popped the cap off the biotic field. Its yellow hue circled around the medical table and he watched the familiar sight of a wound slowly starting to close itself. What a marvel it was to watch.

"Jesse…" came Angela's voice, now soft and comforting in tone. "You should take a moment to relax… you look ragged."

He wanted to protest. He wanted to kick the medical table and shove the Soldier and assert himself in the scene unfolding around him. There was much he wanted to say and do, and deep down inside, he knew how feeble and useless it would be to try in this scenario.

So instead, McCree did the one thing he knew would be helpful to all parties involve: he relaxed.

Absconding to the cockpit, he removed his 10-gallon hat from his soaked forehead and laid it on the ground. Staring at nothing, his thoughts strayed in a direction that caused him to paralyze himself with a revelation. When Fareeha went down, he went against his team's orders. He turned his back on Overwatch and put the value of one of the value of many, and it was only through the luck of outside intervention that he and Fareeha pulled through the operation alive. McCree realized that he'd been willing to put all on the line for her just then… his whole life and reputation with Overwatch for this one girl he'd always tried to care for.

McCree swallowed hard, because he knew then that Fareeha meant more to him than his own livelihood, and that connection _terrified_ him.

"What now?" he muttered as he kicked his feet up in the ship's cockpit.

And for the first time in years, Jesse McCree had _no_ idea where the next day would carry him.


End file.
